


the lucky fact of your existence

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Bathroom Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief interlude in the bathroom of Ten Downing Street.</p>
<p>Set just before the World Tour Finals 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the lucky fact of your existence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://aramleys-words.livejournal.com/13100.html).

Andy makes the fatal error of drifting close enough to be drawn into the orbit of the Prime Minister's conversation, and this is when Novak seizes his chance - Mr Cameron is busy telling Andy about his time as tennis captain of something or other as Novak draws back slowly and discreetly, ignoring Andy's surreptitious warning glances - but the fact is that seconds ago Rafa glanced darkly over at Novak before he slipped out of the room, that they haven't seen each other in three weeks and a continent, and that Novak is not about to let such opportunity go begging.

A security guard directs him to the guest bathroom, all marble tile and tasteful ornament, where Rafa is messing with his hair in the mirror and pretends to ignore Novak as he drapes himself over Rafa's back, like Rafa wasn't waiting for him to show up.

Novak hooks his chin over Rafa's shoulder and says, "Hi," to Rafa's reflection in the mirror.

"Hello," Rafa says, the corners of his mouth twitching in a badly-fought smile. He pretends not to notice when Novak slips warm hands up under Rafa's jacket to rest at his hips. "You enjoy the party?"

Novak huffs. "This is really what you want to say to me?" He turns his head and nips at Rafa's neck, and Rafa relents, shifting around in Novak's arms so they're face to face.

"You need shave," he says, rubbing his fingertips against Novak's cheek.

Novak turns his face into the touch, nips at Rafa's knuckles. "You don't like?"

Rafa wrinkles his nose in silent eloquence, but keeps rubbing against the scratchy unfamiliar stubble.

Novak laughs. "It'll feel better, you know -" and he smiles, slow and warm, "- other places."

"Yeah?" Rafa says. He slips his hand down to curve against Novak's neck, holding him where he is. "You gonna show me, later?"

Novak curls his fingers into Rafa's belt-loops. "Who said anything about later?"

Rafa laughs and gives Novak a small, ineffectual shove. "Stop it. Be serious."

"I'm being serious," Novak says, while he undoes the buckle of Rafa's belt over Rafa's half-hearted attempts to close fingers around his wrists and shove him away. "I am always serious. He's talking to Andy about his backhand or something, the global economy, world peace, I don't know - we've got five minutes."

" _Five_ minutes," Rafa scoffs, mock-incredulous, which is a low blow and one that more than merits the sharp nip to the jaw that Novak gives him for it.

"Like I would even need five minutes," he says, low against the shell of Rafa's ear, making sure the stubble on his jaw scratches against the sensitive skin of Rafa's neck.

Rafa squirms against him, exhaling sharply. "You know where we are?"

"Sure," Novak says. "Was a dream of mine to have sex in the bathroom of Ten Downing Street."

"Yeah?" Rafa says, and there's enough truth in it that Novak doesn't care - it has been his dream to have sex with Rafa in the bathroom of Ten Downing Street ever since he walked into the bathroom of Ten Downing Street and found Rafa there. His dream is to have sex with Rafa wherever they are and as often as possible for as long as possible - for as long as Rafa keeps letting him; for the rest of their lives.

So, "Five minutes," Rafa says, in a voice that's frayed at the edges, and Novak doesn't need a fucking starter pistol; all the same, he allows himself time enough for a kiss that leaves Rafa gasping when Novak breaks it to make his way down Rafa's body, trailing down by degrees until he's on his knees, eye-level to Rafa' unbuckled belt. Rafa watches him, dark-eyed and breathing quickly through wet parted lips, and for fuck's sake, Novak thinks, as he hitches Rafa's trousers down and down, how did Novak ever go without this? He scrapes his stubbled cheek against the incongruously pale untouched skin of Rafa's inner thigh and loves Rafa's choked-off noise, and the involuntary gasp when Novak swallows him down.

Rafa is about the most vocally appreciative partner Novak's ever had - noises and incoherent snatches of Spanish run together with, best of all, _Novak_ or _Nole_ \- and Novak thinks with some measure of joy how much it must be killing him to bite his lip and keep painfully, achingly quiet. Novak shoves a hand up under Rafa's shirt to feel the quick fluttering of Rafa's stomach muscles against his palm while he works.

Rafa comes in a space of time that might be embarrassing if Novak weren't already spilling over his own frantic hand, the electric sparking force of his orgasm like a feedback loop from the exquisite-painful tightening of Rafa's fingers in his hair as he comes hot into Novak's mouth.

"Nole," Rafa breathes, dragging Novak up with impatient hands, pulling him flush against his body. Low and desperate, "Nole, Nole."

"Shh," Novak says, ruined, and kisses him. He reaches and smoothes his hands back through the wreck of Rafa's sweat-dampened hair, that really doesn't look any worse than before they started, if Novak's honest - and when it comes to Rafa, he always is. He kisses Rafa until his heart beats slower, until Rafa's grip has softened a little from bruising to merely possessive.

"Five minutes," Novak says, when Rafa breaks away with a last smudged and smiling kiss against the roughened edge of Novak's jaw.

"Was more for sure," Rafa says.

"No," says Novak, with a lazy grin. "You're just that easy."

Rafa snorts and starts, slowly, to extract himself from Novak's grip. "Come on. They gonna miss us."

They clean up slower than they should, lingering. The hand towels have Downing Street crests on them and Novak has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing guiltily as he swipes at their mess. Rafa tucks Novak's shirt in and does up his trousers with an easy familiarity that makes Novak swallow around a catch in his throat; he returns the favour while Rafa goes back to running his fingers across the scratchy line of Novak's jaw.

"You need shave," he says, when they're tidied and suited and readied for the world again.

"You love it," Novak says.

For that Rafa gives him a last, dark look over his shoulder before he leaves, a look that says, _you just wait_. By unspoken agreement, Novak waits a few moments before he follows. He looks at himself in the mirror over the porcelain sink and hopes the just-got-laid look (this precise lazy tilt of his smile) is less obvious to everyone else - especially the fucking Prime Minister - than it is to him right now.

Back in the room, Roger is holding a kind of court at one end of the room, Rafa has gravitated to Ferrer, and Andy is still talking to Cameron. Andy flicks over a whip-crack glance as Novak edges into the party, a look that's a cross between, _you are so fucking busted_ and _you are so fucking dead_. Novak gives him the smallest shrug of apology, but just at that moment a waiter offers him a refreshed glass of champagne and Novak takes it, smiling, because seriously. He just got laid in the bathroom of Ten Downing Street. Life is good.


End file.
